“And working together, what might we become?/citizens of a single kingdom./you could find it all in the palm of your hand/alongside Indian, yellow and black.”
Rafael Aguilar Páez was an indigenous poet and politician from Cusco, Peru. He served as mayor of Cusco and Rector of the University of Cusco. Aguilar represented the region of Cusco for three terms in the National Congress in the 1940s and 1950s. He brought modernizing infrastructure and resources to his region and fought successfully to make Quechua the nation’s second official language. Aguilar founded and directed the Peruvian Institute for Aboriginal Languages. He translated the poetry of many authors into his native Quechua and was international in his outlook. These poems, which were previously unpublished, were translated by Merion West arts editor Johnny Payne.
The Indian
The hearts of white people can never be moved.
– Manuel González Prada en El Mitayo
I
What heinous crimes
unleashed upon the world?
Why have you forgot what’s mine,
good Father, sun lord
the earth I worked, diseased
me dispossessed, nothing mine.
Wheat and wool bad remedies
The landowner unkind
leaving me in hunger, cold.
Before him, the Spaniard.
II
Blood, sweat, tears
my life as a machine.
Why sun have you turned
senseless and mean?
Why don’t you light
my owner’s listless brain?
If you can pour with all your might
upon us excellent rays
you might as well make
his conscience start awake.
III
Wheat bread I sowed
my work turns
into his. If I pluck gold
while my muscles burn
from the man-killing
mine, where docile I go down
and keep the herd fattening
and shepherd, pushing them along
still all is his, I’m good as dead
no home, nor loaf of bread.
IV
My wife, helpmeet
in helpless hopelessness
while haplessly
I listen to her sob:
Sometimes I plot
to strangle her while she sleeps.
And yet, it wouldn’t be her fault
if she happened to offend my sight
when the landowner or his offspring
happened to rape her, break her heart.
V
My daughter? I remember.
The echo of her voice
still rings in my ears
begging pardon in that cloister
from deaf executioners
who smothered her cries.
They closed their heedless ears
those decent young tykes
from blow to blow. Those bandits
the owner’s sons! I spit.
VI
And my son? Ah, yes, my young man!
One day the owner’s men
marched straight to the highlands
slinging cruel slogans;
maybe because we were Indians
nothing made them see
though they watched
my wife in hysterics
while they carried my son
straight to the barracks.
VII
They made a masquerade
holding in hand a rifle, the symbol
of fratricidal hate.
and he, ignorant and dumb, victim
of this so-called fellow man
whose ignorance in turn
upholds the ignorance
of all tyrants
whose interest, facile
lies in keeping Indians docile.
VIII
Where do I turn my eyes?
To who can I complain?
My gods—my elders?
What happened to those men?
I’m mute and my silence
still doesn’t liberate
and if at times I stand resigned
it’s because stoically
I give up proclaiming, and muse
to everybody: What’s the use?
IX
If work is good because
that means men increase
proving their cause
as a superior species
and he who, like me
for work sacrifices
without the devil being
the only one preaching this advice
am I, who am always working
not a superior species?
X
I know: if from usufruct
on which my effort depends
I don’t receive the fruits
cannot them spend
if muscles quiver
with the ax that splits
the tree, for firewood shivered
chopped to bits
will that same hand, once free
ever light my own chimney?
XI
Irrigated land? I’ve bored
and dug an aqueduct
yet I’m without bed, on the floor.
I’ll lie there when I’m near defunct.
Anonymous heroism?
I was in the redoubt:
but I’m always in the schism
never in the product
and haven’t, since from the womb
enjoyed either cradle or tomb.
XII
I was shepherd to the cattle
and I watered the land
and between ditches battled
sweat and seeds to plant.
Another’s granary
encloses it now
for a Fatherland that orphaned me
I traded blows in war
showed obedience
and showed valor.
XIII
I’m the one who holds
the hoe and the lantern
who stretches rails
and builds embankments
the one who spends his whole
life making good others’ plans
the Indian made brute by alcohol.
Young or old, I serve the white man
Who pays me in disdain
a salary in pain.
XIV
I pour my sweat
into the wide plain
the one on which autos
soon will run
I sculpt stones in silence
in the quarry
I’m the poor race
for whom no one worried
without pleasure, bathed in sand
without home or homeland.
XV
I’m the docile beast
submissive and resigned
among all mules the least
kept in a halter bound.
I’m the one who sows
the highlands and deep valleys
the one you give a blow
or kick him just because
as any mestizo
feels he has a right to do.
XVI
I’m eternal servitude
work-bait, in barracks
or factory. I’m a rude
source of attacks
a militant force
naked strength, brute power
vivifying blast
I barely merit a glance, less glower
slave, peon, soldier
puppet on a string.
XVII
An ever active arm
and potent muscle
that from its motion warms
working by the sole suction
that my energy creates
in quiet and with faith
irrigation furrows or paths
joined by a bridge
it makes places to embrace
in strong communion.
XVIII
Day in, day out, I’ve been
and will be laboring
with the resilience shown
by the past’s bright blows ringing:
temples, fortresses
everyone admires
what’s eternal, what endures
what’s been left dispersed
in the imperial birth
tardy in its rebirth.
XIX
I who drain the cow
but don’t drink the milk
I with fist on plow
but don’t taste cheese’s silk
I who eat
leftovers, mere scraps
I who work until I’m beat
never taking a nap
I, the lazy Indian
I, the Indian vagabond.
XX
I who raise great walls
plastering on adobe
and finish the master’s halls
will then make my own dwelling
I who if I gain anything
the landowner will filch
it, and when I complain,
I’ll surely get whipped.
I who fashion things
that never will be mine.
XXI
I soothe my sorrows with
yista stone and coca leaf
soothing my shot nerves
and serving as lean feast.
I endure cold and I fast.
At least in my mouth
I hold coca to chew
creating a sense of heat
boosting my energy
Like sacred wheat.
XXII
When conviction crashes
to full misery
and I consider, abashed
my decadent destiny
and when I surmise
land is less than abundant
when my anguish rises
and my pain becomes flagrant
I find in alcohol a remedy
for my despondency.
XXIII
I drink, I drink, I drink.
Avidly, I get drunk
wanting, in my booze haze
to smash my funk
as in alcohol I seek
the blaze of havoc
as somebody once said
as if himself to flatter.
It’s because in me
something wants to sleep.
XXIV
That’s when I become
the grotesque, groaning Indian
complaining, moaning
crying just to be crying:
the most disgraceful being
in the world
this would-be man, this nothing.
because in booze, the sting
feels less sharp
even if you can’t heal your heart.
XXV
I owe this great benefit
to my torturers:
alcohol makes you stupid
and I can confidently report
that nobody tries to push
me off these deadly games.
Alcohol helps crush
a man, put on the yoke.
Alcohol ensures we will
suffer, suffer still.
XXVI
In the perpetual crime
of my current state
who’s presumed innocent
who can say, “Me!”?
Nobody. The functionary
the priest, the soldier
not them, not the gringo
the businessman or famed lawyer
who, thanks to his great defense
took away my land.
XXVII
He who thanks to my work
progresses via me in reverse
robs me and that jerk
calls it all honor
he who exploits my brawn
and crafty, takes a leap
he wears me down
so he can reap
he who leaves me abandoned
hungry and naked.
XXVIII
The wool I’ve been shearing
I might as well have invented
the hefty flock grazing
on land rented
from the owner
in his immense, sure
stolen glory, he alone
is the proprietor
of the whole spread:
my goods, his deed.
XXIX
He’ll throw toward me with
a grim and haughty frown
a few miserable pennies
the thousandth portion
of the true price of my grain,
leather, wool shaven
all else that’s mine, perfectly
gauged so there won’t be money
and he’ll have the subprefect
and judge on hand, in his pocket.
XXX
Once in a great spell
there have been good times.
What beast hasn’t had
moments that felt sublime?
Even the biggest bandit
can be generous sometimes
without ever understanding
my suffering, my wounds
and thereby judging
himself to be kind.
XXXI
My gods no longer bear
my land is no longer mine
my life is forced labor
to the end
work slow, work fast
at first light and last dark
without a day of rest
because leisure and spark
is a crime; what could redeem
my life except work and spleen?
XXXII
I understand nobody
is required to know
the slights I’ve embodied
buried here below
the owner’s angry hand
that beats me and wounds my peace
the foot that kicks my face
while I keep a straight face.
What does anyone know of the time spent
of one who holds his anger silent?
XXXIII
What do I owe white people?
Suffering hate, injustice
never able to let loose a peep
or otherwise use my voice.
Jail is for Indians, that’s their justice!
What virtue were they teaching?
To be stingy and vicious.
I owe whites nothing:
Neither to them nor their God
the divine beast who makes them proud.
Draw Near, White Man
Don’t be afraid of me, as there’s nothing to fear:
that I’d kill or rob my fellow creatures
using their sweat through a dubious lie
and enjoy it. I’m not that way: don’t fear me.
My God the Inca and Creator
if I lift up his name it’s in honor.
Liar, dullard, thief, false, infamous
as you well know, I’ve been none of these.
From the great Incas, their son and servant
from Tawantinsuyo and surroundings
working the fields, weaving, ever
raising animals, all in good cheer.
I strive to eat, work for a living
and that’s how I lived with my Inca, my King.
home, bread, beloved, chicha, water
back then, nothing could be made better.
Approach me, white man
though you don’t have yesterday’s beard.
From me, what do you have to doubt or fear?
From my sincere soul, my mouth that’s clean?
I walk a straight path, one with no crooks
and work my plot of land, temples, brooks
living among men and women, sisters and brothers
and as the Inca orders, doing right by all others.
Whatever you said before was cast off by the wind
as we sorrowed in hunger, misery, pain
four hundred years in a river of tears
living in my village, without a savior.
Today they tell me there are no longer any
whites who want to work together with Indians
hand in hand, but maybe
we can all walk together as if we were one people.
And working together, what might we become?
citizens of a single kingdom.
you could find it all in the palm of your hand
alongside Indian, yellow and black.
Rafael Aguilar Páez was a Peruvian poet and politician active between the 1930s and 1970s. He died in 1972.
